


Shep Gets Drunk And Weepy All Over Samara (Who Doesn't Really Mind; It Happens To Everyone LBR)

by ialpiriel



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:53:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel/pseuds/ialpiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard invites Samara back to the Normandy post-Lesuss, gets drunk, cries about things.<br/>written for the prompt "things you said too quietly, samara/anyone"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shep Gets Drunk And Weepy All Over Samara (Who Doesn't Really Mind; It Happens To Everyone LBR)

"Hey," Shepard says, leans on the railing next to Samara. She gives Samara a tight smile, and the wrinkles around her eyes pop out. She’s not that old, not even for a human.

"Hello, Shepard," Samara greets her. Lesuss is behind them, thankfully. Shepard looks so tired now. She always looks tired, no matter how much makeup the news stations put on her, no matter what they do to clean up the slope of her shoulders and the bags under her eyes and the tight, thin line of her mouth.

"So d’you—d’you wanna come get drunk on the ship tonight? Just one night. For old times’ sake? You can sleep on your old couch, if you want. No one’s moved in since you left." Shepard looks over at her, shrugs once, winces at the way the muscles pull. She’s stiff, muscles too knotted to be comfortable. She needs to be laid out on a massage table and worked over. Maybe get busy with her lover. Both, perhaps. Shepard is too physical, leans too much into touch and violence for her to find the happiness she needs in meditation. Not yet. In a few months, perhaps, when the worst of this is over.

"I may spend time with you tonight. I think I will refrain from the drinking, however." Samara grins over at Shepard. The way Shepard grins back, the way she bounces on the balls of her feet, like she’s a small child and not someone with the weight of the galaxy settling onto her shoulders and wrapping its fingers around her throat until she suffocates, the way she looks so unabashedly _happy_ to be spending time with other people—

It makes Samara ache for something that doesn’t have a name anymore, left behind centuries ago, in a different life.

"I’ll leave you to your business, then?" Shepard asks, careful about her words. Shepard is blunt and violent when she’s dealing with people who would be the same with her, but among friends, she’s tactful. Relatively.

"Thank you, Shepard. May I ask what dock you are in, so that I can find you tonight?"

"Of course!" Shepard startles, and begins typing into her omnitool. When Samara’s pings, Shepard grins up at her, all teeth and squinched eyes. "I’ll see you tonight. Bring your party clothes. We’re gonna laze around and get drunk."

+++

Most of the crew has dispersed, and when Liara leaves, she runs her fingers—delicate, scientist fingers, the kind of fingers that would rather be on a keyboard than on a gun, even if they spend more tiem on the latter; Samara knows those types of hands; a criem is a crime no matter if it’s a trigger pulled or a key pressed—over Shepard’s scalp. Shepard is sprawled across the couch, her feet bare, her tank top untucked, her belt loose and her pants slung low on her hips.

"Come to bed soon," Liara tells her, and Shepard hums and murmurs something at her, lazy, drunk smile curling across her face. Liara snorts and runs her palm over Shepard’s head. Shepard grabs her wrist and kisses her knuckles. Liara pulls away, but doesn’t seem bothered by the open display of affection.

When the door slides shut behind Liara, it’s just Shepard and Samara.

Shepard half-sits, shakes her head a little as she wobbles. She’s drunk too much; she’s never handled alcohol well, and Cerberus’s upgrade on the matter seem to be failing. She looks at Samara. Samara looks back.

Then Shepard hauls herself to her feet and staggers across the room, collapses next to Samara. Tugs her pants higher on her hips, fumbles drunkenly with her belt for a half second before she gives up. Tucks her feet under herself and rests her cheek on Samara’s shoulder.

Shepard pushes into people’s space, but she doesn’t usually ask.

She doesn’t ask like this, her fingers toying nervously with the seams on her pants as she maintains exactly one point of contact.

Samara makes it easy, loops her arm around Shepard’s shoulder.

Shepard leans in.

"Miss’m’mm," she mutters, all mushmouth so unintelligible the translator doesn’t have a chance in hell. "M’scared." That, at least, is clear.

"Your fear is understandable," Samara tells her, rubs Shepard’s bicep.

"I don’t wanna die an’ that’s how these stories always end. ‘S always a great big sacrifice at the end an’ the hero dies an’ everyone mourns her and talks about how great she is and then in a few generations she’s just a fuckin’ story. Ain’t even a real person anymore. Doesn’t do person things like shit and eat and cry. Doesn’t miss her mom and want to disappear into interstellar space so that she never has to look at people again.” Shepard squirms, shrugs off Samara’s arm. “Sorry. Shouldna…shouldna drunk so much. Shouldna drunk at all, prob’ly.” Shepard looks at the bottle and laughs. “I’m gonna go…I’m gonna go cuddle with my girlfriend, yeah? That’s a space hero thing to do.”

Shepard stands and stumbles away. She stops to lean on the door, sagging. She looks back at Samara, and her lips move, but there’s no sound. Samara doesn’t know how to read lips on humans.

She doubts she’ll get the chance.

Shepard wobbles out of the room, arms wrapped around herself.


End file.
